


Cinder and Smoke

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, M/M, Sibling Incest, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:12:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day before your seventh birthday, the day before your father flips his lid for good, for forever, he takes you to Missouri to have your fortune told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinder and Smoke

**CINDER AND SMOKE**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Sam/Dean; Deam/OMC  
 **WARNINGS** : multiple suicide attempts; serial killing

  
The day before your seventh birthday, the day before your father flips his lid for good, for forever, he takes you to Missouri to have your fortune told. She smiles down at you, her big round face, smiles like she’s known you all your life, like she knows everything about you, and your hand gripping tight to your father’s pant leg, she says, “Hello, Dean.” Tilting her head, she says, “There ain’t nothing to be scared about.” Her big smile, her pretty white teeth, she’s wearing jewelry that clinks together when she moves, reaching out for your tiny palm, her long fingernails, and she’s saying, “There ain’t nothing to be worried about, honey.”

She’s saying, “There ain’t nothing here that you can’t handle.” You and your martyr complex, Sam asks you sometimes where you get it from, but you’ve never told him this story. The way your father pried your hands away from his pants, the way your father pushed you forward and told you to be a big boy for once, for always, because you can’t rely on him forever, because little Sammy depends on it. Sam asks you sometimes where you get that feeling, that need to protect him and dad and everyone, to sacrifice everything you have, but you don’t tell him about the way Missouri gripped your little hand, your sweaty palm, how she looked up at your father with those wide eyes. You don’t tell him this story, the day before your seventh birthday, the day before your father finally gave in, finally lost it.

And Missouri’s saying, “It’s okay, Dean.” Her big smile, she’s saying, “Ain’t nothing to be scared over.” Her jewelry going clink clink clink, glinting in the noonday sun, the crystals above her head, swaying with the dusty Kansas wind, Missouri’s looking up at your father, her face turning red, her face like she’s been out in the sun too long without sunscreen, her brown skin, and her eyes are big and white. And you’re thinking, her long fingernails tickling the wrinkles of your palms, the lines there, you’re thinking, her big eyes, scared, she seems nice and all, but she’s the worst liar you’ve ever seen. You’re thinking, she seems nice and all, nice like a woman should be, her sweet smelling perfume, her warm embrace, nice like a mommy should be, and you’re thinking, she’s nice, but she won’t ever be able to hide anything from you.

Missouri, her big lips, blood red with the lipstick that stains your cheek, from where she kissed you, your forehead, from where she gathered you to her chest, she’s saying, “Oh, Dean.” She’s saying, “Oh, honey.” Her eyes on your father, on his rough face, the stubble there, the black circles around his eyes, the smell of alcohol on his clothes, and Missouri’s saying, “Don’t worry, baby, ain’t nothing you can’t handle.” Missouri and her wide eyes, she’s shaking her head no, she’s shaking her head and her jewelry is clinking together, in time to the crystals above, in tune, and this rhythm, she’s looking at your father like she’s just seen a ghost.

And she’s saying, “Ain’t nothing you can’t do.”

Your father rolling his eyes and pulling his flask out of his back pocket, the one he’ll eventually hand down to you, the one with the golden cross engraved on the front, he takes a sip as Missouri pulls you to her, and he’s saying, “Dean can do anything.” One, two, three sips, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, licking his lips, coughing, his haggard face, his black-rimmed eyes, he’s saying, “Dean’s my little soldier.” He’s saying, “Dean’s my little brave boy.”

His quick smile to you, the way his eyes just can’t focus on your face, the way he reaches out, his heavy hand grazing the top of your head, your soft hair, Missouri’s got her arms around you, tight, and you’re not sure who to believe here. Your father’s hand ruffling your hair, Missouri and her long fingernails, tickling the hairs on your arms, you’re not sure who you’re supposed to be following. Your father saying, “Dean’s my little warrior,” the smell of alcohol on his breath, and, later, Sam will ask you why you’re always moving, those days Dad won’t even come out of the bathroom, those days you’ll have to break down the door, the water that seeps through the cracks of all those old wooden farmhouses. The water that streams down into the kitchen, dripping on little Sammy’s homework, later, Sam will ask why your father is always doing this, the blood you’ll scrub out of all those porcelain tubs, the blood that soaks the black and white tile, those rubber gloves that come all the way to your elbows, later, Sam will look at you and tell you that he hates this. Later, Sam will look at you with tears in his eyes and tell you that if you just didn’t stop him, just once, didn’t take away that gun or knife or all those little vials of snake venom and cyanide and little white pills, the ones next to the cases of rock salt, the ones he tells you are for all those demons he believes in, like the one that took your mother away. Later, Sam will look at you and tell you that he hates what you’re doing, just standing by, just letting your father do this, cleaning up after him like it’s no big deal, and, later, Sammy and his lips pressed tight together, he’ll tell you that he hates you.

Your father saying, “My little soldier,” his slurred speech, the smell of whiskey on his breath, the day before your seventh birthday, the day before he jumps off the deep end for good, for forever, and he’s saying, “Aren’t you?” He’s saying, “Aren’t you?”

Missouri smells like perfume and lipstick and sweet bread, her long exhale as she stares at your father, her clenched teeth, her fingernails are digging into your skin, but you can’t even cry out. You can’t even make a sound. This sense of martyrdom, this feeling that you have to save everybody, that you have to sacrifice everything you know just to keep Dad, just to keep little Sammy safe, this story, your father and Missouri and you, you’ve never told Sam any of this. You’ve never told anybody.

Your father saying, “My little Dean.” Missouri and her arms tight against yours, her long fingernails tickling your skin, she’s saying, “Don’t worry, honey.” She’s saying, “Ain’t nothing you can’t handle.” Your life, your future, your father never told you why he took you here, drove all the way from Bobby’s, where he’d left little Sammy, where you guys have been staying since your mom died, your father never told you why he asked Missouri to read your palm, but you’re not that stupid, you’re not that much of a baby. Your father and his smile, he’s swaying on his feet, and Missouri has this tone in her voice, saying, “John.” Saying, “You can’t be doing this to your boys.” Saying, “Not now. Not after what’s happened.” Her hands creeping over your ears, her long fingers burying themselves in your hair, and she’s pressing tight together, squeezing, and you can barely hear her as she says, “John, look at me.” As she says, “Mary’s gone. All you got is your boys now.”

That tone, Missouri and her big chest swelling against your back, moving up and down as she breathes, she’s saying, “Think of the little ones.” Her hands cupping your ears, she’s saying, “Think of your boys.” Saying, “They’re the ones that need you now.”

Missouri and her sweet smell, the day before your seventh birthday, she looks down at you and your small little palm, the wrinkles there, the lines and creases, all those starts and stops, and she winks and says, “See that,” pointing to one of the grooves near the side of your hand. She says, “That’s your life line.” Saying, “See how long it is, running all the way down your hand?” Saying, “See how deep it is?” Your father and his whiskey smell, he breathes through his nose, annoyed, but you’re caught on every word she says, staring straight at her, holding your breath, her sweet smell, her perfume, you’re just so entranced, and she says, “That means you’re gonna live a long, healthy life.” She says, “And see those extra lines? Those ones right next to it,” pointing to the other circles, the other lines. Missouri says, “That means you have every positive force in the world surrounding you.” Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, running a finger down the length of your soft cheek, she says, “That means you’ll always have someone looking out for you, Dean.”

Your father and his grunt, the way he shifts beside you, the way he takes a swallow from his flask, those tears in his eyes, the day before your seventh birthday, the day before your father goes completely batshit insane, for good, for forever, Missouri bends down to look you in the eye, her hands on yours, her long fingernails tickling your skin, and she says, “Those lines on your palm?” She says, “That means you’ll always be protected.” Her big mouth, that blood red lipstick, and she’s smiling at you, her pretty white teeth, her nice face, and she’s saying, “That means you’ll always be safe.”

Saying, “That means nothing can ever hurt you.”

And, later, Sam will ask you who Missouri is, flipping through Dad’s journal, reading names and dates and all those stupid stories of monsters he’s never even met, demons that don’t even exist, and, later, Sammy will catch her name, all those brittle brown pages, this story you’ve never even told anyone. Later, Sammy will look up at you with that innocent face, the journal he thinks will bring him closer to your father, the journal he actually believes in, no matter how many times you tell him it’s all just made up, later, you’ll say, “Nobody.” Elbows deep in soapy water as you scrub the dishes, staring out the curtained window in front of you, into the dusty Kansas wind, scratching your nails against the Styrofoam plates you’re too cheap to re-stock, and you’ll say, “She was just some stupid psychic.” You’ll say, “Just a friend of Dad’s.”

The perfume smell that you can still taste sometimes, when you put your father to bed, those nights he’s too shitfaced to make it on his own, his whiskey soaked clothes, his moans and grunts, that smell of perfume and lipstick and sweet bread when you reach out to touch his stubbled face. Missouri and her big hands, warm as they fold over yours, that day before your seventh birthday, that day before your father went absolutely fucking certifiable, for good, for forever, this story that you’ve never told anyone before, not even little Sammy. Later, you’ll say, “She was nobody, really,” your hands scrubbing hard, scrubbing clean, your hands all wrinkled and creased, all these deep gouges, all these stupid life lines.

Later, you’ll say, “She was just some fucking liar.”

***

The year Sammy leaves for Stanford is the same year you realize that fire seems to follow you around like a bad omen. It starts off with your mother, that night your father tells you about, that night you barely remember except for maybe the smoke and flames and, hey, the warmth of Sammy’s body tucked against yours, the harsh echo of your own breathing as you ran out the door. That night you barely remember except for maybe the way your father looked afterwards, those big, round eyes, the way he just couldn’t stop talking about that fucking demon, the one with the golden yellow eyes, no matter how many people told him it was just stress, their little glances down at you, their worried eyes looking down at your little face, no matter how many people told him it was all just trauma, all just his imagination. This is before Missouri, before Bobby and Pastor Jim and all those hunting lessons, all those bedtime stories of the things that only came out at night. This is before your father started checking out books from the library on ghosts and demons and monsters, before he started stocking the shelves with rock salt instead of peanut butter, before he turned the hall closet into an arsenal full of sawed-off shotguns. This is before you realized just how far gone he actually was.

It starts off with your mother, right, and follows you from town to town, city to city, just little things, a burn mark on the ceiling of Sam’s bedroom in every house you move in to, the lit candles that just seem to knock themselves over, there are just these little things that you never seem to notice. And it’s funny because, sometimes, you are just such a fucking idiot. All those summer storms, those wide plains, those old farmhouses, the scorched grass you’d find in the morning, this ring of black in the front lawn, well, you just figured the lightening got a little too close, is all. You just figured, hey, Mother Nature’s kind of a bitch. And it starts with your mom, right, and ends with the Roadhouse, and maybe, just maybe, it steals a bit of your father’s sanity in between.

The year Sammy leaves for Stanford, you’re working full-time at the Roadhouse, tending bar for tired old men, their bone-weary faces and the black bags underneath their eyes, and they order whiskey in shot glasses and talk in hoarse whispers, stories about fights and old, faded battle scars. Their drained glances to the bottle in your hands, the way their eyes light up when they talk about the trophies on their wall, all those souvenirs from hunts long ago, all those little mementos, well, every single one of them reminds you of your father. Every single one of them with that dead look in their eyes, their haunted faces, the way their hands shake when they tip the glasses towards their mouths, the way they look at you, well, nobody ever said you put yourself in healthy situations. Nobody ever said you weren’t a masochist.

The way you got the job is Ellen was an old friend of your fathers. Was because, hey, your father doesn’t have too many friends now, you and Sammy and maybe just Bobby, even if Pastor Jim hadn’t died, even if Missouri hadn’t stopped coming over, but moving from town to town every so often, moving from city to city, well, it’s not like anyone really wanted to keep in touch, anyway. It’s not like anyone really wanted to bother, not since that day you turned seven, not since the day he went completely fucknuts crazy. See, the way you get the job is, the day of your eighteenth birthday, Ellen calls and asks if you’ve ever been a bartender. You’re already working part-time at Bobby’s garage, but you’re not stupid, you don’t get tips, and flirting over a carburetor isn’t exactly your idea of fun.

The way you get the job is, you take one look at the creaky old Roadhouse, one look at the sticky tables and faded red stools, at the stacks of whiskey bottles, the broken mirrors from bar fights long ago, you take one look and your eyes light up so bright. You take one look, inhaling the scent of musk and dirt and heady alcohol and think, this is so where you belong.

This is exactly where you want to be.

***

After the sixth time your father tries to kill himself, the sixth town, the sixth farmhouse, the way the blood pools on the hardwood, streaming along the cracks, well, after the sixth time, Sam kisses you. And it’s funny because, of all the stupid shit you’ve done, this is hands down the worst.

Sammy believing all your father’s lies, well, that’s one thing. Sammy and the way he strokes the leather of your father’s journal, tries to decipher the old Marine’s code, the Greek alphabet, the way Sammy turns each brittle page so carefully, maybe it isn’t the best thing to allow him to get caught up in all of your father’s stories. And maybe it isn’t the best thing to allow him to be fooled like this, like all those people before him, Missouri and Bobby and Pastor Jim, but maybe it’s better than this, Sam’s fingers running down the length of your naked spine, Sam and his warm touch. Maybe it’s a hell of a lot better than what you’re putting him through, Sam and his soft mouth grazing the skin of your neck, the underside of your chin, Sam and the way he looks up at you, well, maybe your father is just a much better liar than you are.

After the sixth time your father tries to kill himself, his bloody wrists, the note he leaves on the kitchen table, the notes you save in a box all the way in the back of the Impala, just so you have them with you every where you go, after that sixth time, your knees are bruised from scrubbing the bathroom floor so hard. And Sammy says, his mouth on yours, “Why do you put up with this?” His teeth scraping your bottom lip, your hands all scratched to shit from the Brillo pad, and Sammy says, “Why don’t you just let him do it?” His hands fitting against yours, his soft skin, and he’s saying, “Why don’t you just give up?” He’s saying, “Why don’t you just stop fighting?”

And you wanna say, “It’s not that easy.” You wanna say, “It’s so much harder than that,” just giving up, all those dirty brown rags you’ve thrown away, that color of dried blood, the perfectly white bandages you’ve circled around your father’s wrist, you wanna say, “It’s not just about that. It’s not just about the suicide attempts.” The way your father looks at you, that heavy smell of whiskey on his breath, the way he wants you to believe in him so bad, all those towns you’ve ran from, all those cities, well, you wanna say, “There’s so much more.”

Sammy and his hands on you, the way he licks away the salty tears from your cheeks, your tilted chin, maybe this is worse, Sam and his mouth on yours, maybe this is just because you can’t push him away, maybe this is just because you’re so bad at lying these days. Sam and his fingers, the way his hair tickles your chest, well, maybe this is just because you’re so afraid to let him go, because you’re so afraid he’ll end up like your father. Sam and his beautiful brown eyes, and you wanna say, “It’s not just Dad.” You wanna say, “It’s so much worse than that.”

After the sixth time your father tries to kill himself, Sammy climbs into your bed that night, his hand fitting perfectly over your mouth, fitting perfectly against your teeth so you won’t cry out. And he says, “Why do you do this to yourself?” His hand smelling like soap and toothpaste, the musky smell of your father’s aftershave, and Sammy’s saying, “Why can’t you just give him what he wants?” Sam’s hand digging harder into the skin of your mouth, and, what, like he doesn’t need your father around, too. Like you don’t? Like life would just become so much better without your father, if you just gave him that knife, if you just let that water run, if you just tied that fucking noose yourself, let your father die like that, and, really, like the stars would all just magically align? Sammy and his stupid ideas, sometimes you wonder who really got the brains in this family. Sometimes you wonder who really knows what needs to be done around here.

Sam and his nose so close to your own, his mouth barely touching the hand covering yours, Sammy’s saying, “Why can’t you just let him die?” And, really, like that’s just what you fucking need. Really, like that would be the fucking icing right there.

And, your hand reaching up to cup Sam’s face, those beautiful brown eyes, that soft skin, well, you wanna say, “I can’t.” You wanna say, “It’s not that easy.” Sam and his scrunched up nose, his arched eyebrow, the way he tilts his head to look at you, his fingers digging hard into your cheek, his palm pressing flat against your lips, really, you wanna say, “It’s so much more than that.”

But you and your stupid mouth, well, you’re the worst fucking liar.

***

The day you turned seven, your father buys a chocolate cupcake and sticks a half-melted candle in the middle, lighting the wick with his cigarette lighter, cupping the flame with his calloused palm, and says, “Happy birthday, son.” The smile he gives you from the driver’s seat of the Impala, from where you both sit in front of the Main Street drugstore, Sammy coloring quietly in the backseat, well, that’s the first memory that comes to mind when you think of your father. That’s the first good thing you remember. The rest of that day, after he drives you to Bobby’s house to drop you and little Sammy off, after he leaves you there with a ruffle of his hand in your hair, after he tells you to be a good boy for Uncle Bobby, to behave yourself while he’s gone, well, you weren’t actually there for any of that. Everything you’ve heard, everything you’ve read from the police reports, everything Missouri and Bobby and Pastor Jim has told you, well, those aren’t really memories.

And every letter your father has ever left you, every suicide note that talks about that day, every piece of paper you’ve saved, that shoebox you leave in the trunk of the Impala, well, it’s not like those are really apologies.

***

The first person your father ever kills, that day in Lawrence, that day of your seventh birthday, he’s a father of four young children, with a fifth on the way. The second, well, she’s a mother of two, and she just beat a year long struggle with cancer. After the third, a fourteen-year-old girl with pigtails and braces, and after the fourth, a Harvard graduate on his way to becoming a lawyer, well, yeah, after those, you just kind of lost count.

You wear black and attend funerals like it’s your job, and you frown and pretend to cry, hold your head in your hands, wishing you were just somewhere, anywhere else, because this has always been close to your worst idea, always. This has always been some kind of fucked up. In the beginning, it was just to find out what the police knew, what the family knew about what had happened. In the beginning, it was just so you could have some sense of relief that your father wasn’t going to go to jail anytime soon, anytime before you could move away as fast as possible, anytime before you fled this town, this city, this shitty old farmhouse. And in the beginning, yeah, it was mostly just a way of getting out of the house.

You wear black and attend funerals and pose as part of the family in order to gain information from the cops, and the whole time, you’re thinking how fucking wrong this is. How fucking bad. The whole time, well, you’re thinking how much you’d love to just take this new identity and split, away from your father, away from Sammy, away from every responsibility you’ve taken over since your mother died. You’re thinking how cool it would be if you could just start over, just forget about all of this, that day you turned seven, that day that changed everything, yeah, the way you just always find yourself cleaning up after your father, this would all be so much better if you just left.

The first person your father ever kills, that man, his four children all lined up in a row in front of his coffin, all those little black suits, all those little silk neckties, his pretty pregnant wife and her crocodile tears, you keep his picture in the same box you keep your father’s suicide letters. Every life your father’s ever ruined, you cut out their pictures from the newspaper obituaries and clip them to that letter your father left, that town, that city, every house you’ve ever fled, you keep them all with you in the trunk of the Impala, safe. Your stupid instincts, you collect pictures like your father collects scars. Your stupid instincts, you’ll never be able to get away far enough.

The year you turn fifteen, after Lawrence and Oklahoma and Texas, after Arkansas and Mississippi, yeah, after that sixth one, the one that looked just like Sammy, well, Bobby says he’s had enough of helping you wash the blood from your hands. Bobby says, It’s bad enough watching your father do this to himself, it’s bad enough watching you two, you and little Sam, watching you two just wither away from all this stress. Bobby says, You can keep doing this, you can keep covering this up, but it won’t be with his help, it won’t be because of anything he’s done. Bobby and his high road, well, it’s not that surprising, not after Pastor Jim, not after Missouri, but you didn’t think it would be this soon, you didn’t think it would be this easy. Bobby and his stupid morals, you guess family really is blood and not just who you make it, that year you turned fifteen, Bobby and his sad gaze, the red that flaked off your palms, all those stupid little life lines, your father’s suicide note folded neatly in your back pocket, you guess he just won’t ever understand.

Bobby says, “Sorry.” Bobby says, “I’m so sorry, Dean.”

And you’re just so fucking tired of pretending all of this is okay.

***

See, the thing is, every new house you move into, every city, every town, well, it all just smells like smoke to you. See, the thing is, you were so stupid for even thinking everything could turn out in your favor, that everything would just fall in to place, that day after Lawrence, that day after your seventh birthday, and, see, you were just so stupid for even thinking your father wouldn’t have the guts to protect you.

Sammy and his pretty mouth, his face swims into your vision, and he’s saying, “What ever made you think Dad wouldn’t help us?” Sammy and his beautiful eyes, they’re filled to the brim with tears and, well, he’s saying, “What ever made you think Dad wouldn’t kill for you?” And, see, the fact is, you wear black and go to funerals like it’s your job, and, yeah, you’re so tired of this, and, yeah, this is so fucked up, but you’re not quite sure how you got this stupid, how you let everything get this far. Sammy and his soft skin, Sammy and his dirty mouth, he’s kissing you, licking the dried blood off your face with his tongue, washing away every sin you’ve ever committed. And, yeah, this is your worst idea, and, yeah, this is so wrong, but nothing’s ever felt like this before, nothing’s ever made you want this so bad, Sammy and his stupid touch.

See, the thing is, your father left that day you turned seven, and he never came back. Not that man you knew, not that man you loved, and it’s such bullshit that you’ve been living with this fallout for so long, but you’ve never known anything else. All this familiarity, and you’ve never lived another life, you’ve never been anyone else, not once. This is you and this is your life, and this is the shit you have to deal with, fucking dirty old men for tips at the Roadhouse just to put little Sammy through school, cleaning up every mess your father has ever made just so he won’t get put in jail, just so he won’t fucking die and leave you alone. This is everything, this is you.

And, see, the thing is, the first time your father ever tried to kill himself, well, you’ve never seen so much blood in your life. And it’s not even funny, really, how fast things went bad after that, moving in with Bobby so he could keep an eye on your father, daily visits from Missouri where she squeezes your cheeks and makes disappointed clucking sounds with her tongue, her big palms wrapping around your shoulder, her tight grip. It’s not even funny how fast you forgot what normal felt like, how fast you forgot your Mom, the smell of her hair and skin, the feel of her hands tucking you in at night, because, see, the day after your seventh birthday, the day your father tried to kill himself, well, everything got replaced with the smell and taste and feel of smoke. Everything just took a backseat, and Sammy and his stupid mouth, he’s saying, “What ever made you think we wouldn’t make it out of this?” Sammy and his stupid eyes, those tears, well, his hands are on your face, his mouth, his skin, and he’s saying, “What ever made you think things wouldn’t work out?”

Sammy and his stupid college education, well, you’re not quite sure he knows the definition of the word okay. Sammy and his stupid hands, pressing hard on your stomach, pressing tight, there’s blood on his mouth from where he’s kissed you, and none of this has ever seemed so right before, none of this has ever seemed anything besides fucked up, all that red, all that dirty skin.

And, see, the thing is, the Roadhouse burning down, all those dirty old men, all those guys that have helped put Sam through school, all those secret back room rendezvous’ and those fifty dollar bills slipped your way, all that screaming and yelling as the bottles of alcohol explode around them, well, that was the least of your problems. And, see, the thing is, the funny thing, well, you kind of wish you would have believed in your father, his stupid old journal, all those scars, all those people he’s killed, Sammy and his hands pressing tight against the growing stain on your shirt, against that wound there. See, if you had just given in like Sammy had told you to, if you had just listened, well, the funny thing is, everything would have turned out fine.

The day before your seventh birthday, the day before your father changed your life for forever, for always, well, maybe you should have just listened to Missouri. Maybe you should have just believed.

***

Your father saying, “Those people?” The way he tips that silver flask back towards his mouth, the way he takes one, two, three swallows before he looks at you, before he lets his eyes focus again, his bruised knuckles, the bandages wrapped around his wrists. Your father saying, “Those people weren’t like you and me, Dean.” And, really, here he goes again, in the soft light of the kitchen, your new town, your new city, the soft light as he drinks himself to death, as Sammy sleeps quietly in the next room.

Your father saying, “Those people were demons, and don’t you dare feel sorry for them.” And, really, like you haven’t heard this speech before. Like you haven’t been hearing this since the day of your seventh birthday. Really, like you’ve just been ignoring him until now. Your father saying, “Don’t you dare, Dean.” The scratches on his arms from where that man fought back, from where he put up a goddamn good fight, your father and his drunken moves, the way his lip has split in two, the dried blood on his chin. Your father saying, “Don’t you dare.”

Really, honestly, like you care anymore.

Your father saying, “They were possessed.” Saying, “They did awful things, you have no idea. I never told you.” Saying, “I had to do it.” His stupid excuses, the way he just can’t stop doing this to you, the way he’s pleading, the flask that glints in the soft light, the way his breath smells like whiskey. Your father saying, “I had to, Dean. I had to.” Or, what, they’d kill another woman, they’d kill another mother with two young kids and a fucking lunatic husband. Really, what then?

Your father saying, “This is all for you, Dean.” You, Sammy, Bobby, the whole frigging world, right? And your father saying, “This is all for you.”

***

See, the thing is, nothing ended like you hoped it to. The day the Roadhouse burned down, the year Sammy leaves for college, the year you realize that fire’s been following you around since your mother died, well, it was all kind of one big fluke. See, the funny thing is, your father was right, the smell of smoke in your nostrils, the way you taste it on your tongue, the grit in your teeth, the way you catch a glimpse of yellow eyes between the dark clouds invading your lungs, between the fire that leaps at your clothes, well, your father was fucking right and damned if it’s taken more than a decade to finally figure that out. Damned if you never really wanted to know the truth.

See, the thing is, Ellen barely escapes, leaning against your shoulder coughing as you both waver in the wind, her hand gripping hard, gripping tight, shaken, and you almost make it, too, if you hadn’t have gone after him. That thing, that demon, whatever it is that your father has been trying to hunt down for almost your whole life, ever since your seventh birthday, ever since the day he finally got his shit together and realized what he had to do. See, the thing is, no one’s ever said you were the brains of this stupid family, and you guess you should have remembered that. The way he smiled up at you from between the flames, that demon, that black smoke, those yellow eyes, the way he made you leave Ellen gasping for breath, well, you guess you should have seen it coming. You guess you should have been prepared.

It doesn’t take much, honestly, just a knife to the stomach and you’re down for the count, mind racing through all those stupid things you could have believed in, all those stupid stories your father told you of the monsters he’d killed, the demons he’d slayed, really, it was embarrassingly simple. And that stupid fucking man, those yellow eyes, the way he’d smiled and laughed, saying, “Wow.” Saying, “If I had known it was gonna be that easy, I would have done it years ago.” Like this was all just a plan or something, like he’d been keeping tabs, and, really, when the fuck did your life get this bad, honestly, when did it turn into some kind of sideshow? And, really, if only you hadn’t gone in to work today.

The next time you open your eyes, Sam’s face is above you, blinking back tears, those hands on your stomach, that blood on his mouth, and he tells you that Ellen went to go get your father, that everything is gonna be fine. And fuck it if you hadn’t just been born into a family of liars. And Sam’s saying, “See?” Sam’s saying, “Now don’t you believe?” All those funerals you went to, all those stupid black clothes, the way you pretended to cry, well, you wished you would have found out sooner, but nothing ever seems to work in your favor. And Sam’s saying, “See?” Saying, “He was right all along.” And, really, now you know.

The way he’s pressing hard, pressing tight, the way he kisses your mouth, the way you can still smell smoke, well, you know this isn’t gonna turn out good, Sammy saying, “Hold on,” his mouth slack against yours, his grimace. Sammy saying, “Please.” Saying, “Just a few more minutes.”

Honestly, you guess if your father just came out and told you, if you hadn’t have put the pieces together through old memories and police reports and the way Missouri frowned when you brought it up, the way Bobby looked uneasy, really, if your father had just told you what had happened that night, you might have believed him. You might have given in, turned yourself over. Honestly, if he had just come out and told you why your mother had died, why she was gone and buried, that fucking demon, those yellow eyes, well, you might just have helped him hunt down that sick bastard. Sammy and his tears, the way they fall down his cheeks, the way they land on your skin, the way you can taste them when Sam kisses you, those tears, that blood, the way you just know. And Sammy’s saying, “Please, Dean.” Sammy’s saying, “Just hold on.”

And all those stupid letters in the backseat of the Impala, all those pictures, well, the way your breath is getting tighter with every draw, the way it hurts to open your mouth now, the taste of blood on your tongue, all those stupid memories, those scars on your father’s skin, Sammy saying, “Please.” Sammy saying, “Please, Dean, please.” All those stupid mistakes, well, you tell Sam to burn them with your body.


End file.
